


A New King

by NoxuTheAutomaton



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: He is still a dork, M/M, This is the first fanfic I have written so it is bad, Triumphant Wilson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 18:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxuTheAutomaton/pseuds/NoxuTheAutomaton
Summary: A short Maxwil drabble for an AU Where Wilson wasn't freed





	A New King

Wilson arched against the stiff back of the Throne, attempting to strech in his less than optimum position. The bonds that held his arms _had_  been terrifying - claustrophobic even - but the feeling had dulled to a nag in the back of Wilson's mind, always present but no longer overwhelming. The other feelings and... powers that came with the Throne were a little harder to get used to: the slow trickle of infomation about the state of The Constant and the strange disconnect between his physical body and his "projected" form.

Still, at least it was more interesting than staring into the black emptyness of the throne room. And it distracted Wilson from the constant feeling that many eyes were pointed in his direction. Instead of think about that for too long, the scientist turned his interest towards exploration. The world was vast, and Wilson's focus had been elsewhere when he was a surviver - mostly preventing himself from starving, or freezing, or being eaten - so there was still so much uncovered land.

It was one of these unexplored forests that Wilson found himself in now. He ran his fingers - well, his projection's fingers - over the rough tree bark, taking a moment to listen to the gentle bird song and the distant rythmic _thump thump thump_  of an axe, the wind wh- wait, axe? The sound was coming from up ahead, becoming less and less distant with each step, thumping in time with Wilson's far away heart. What exactly was he hoping to find? Company? It wasn't like he'd ever really craved it before. Perhaps it was simple scientific curiosity. At least that's what Wilson told himself.

The noise was so close now, and then it was close enough, close enough to see the cause. A figure stood, chopping diligently at the nearest pine tree, scrawny arms straining at the effort. They paused, letting the axe fall to plant itself in the ground, and wiped the sweat from their brow and now Wilson could see them clearly and..... But, no, it couldn't be, Wilson had seen his death, seen him age and crumble like ancient paper. ' _Has death ever stopped me?'_  The thought hit Wilson like a sack of bricks, and he found himself back on the Throne.

Swallowing harshly, he took a deep steadying breath. Maxwell wasn't as dead as he had first seemed. This was fine, totally fine. He could deal with this. So why was his stomach twisting into knots of... excitment? No, that was ridiculous! Why in the name of science would he * _want_ * to see Maxwell? He was the reason he was trapped here in the first place, so any latent feelings of fondness would be ridiculous - no matter how sweetly Maxwell had spoke to him through the radio.

He- he was just suprised, that was all. That was perfectly logical. And it would be perfectly logical to check on Maxwell again. Just to make sure it was really him.

* * *

 

It was odd, to say the least, watching Maxwell from a distance, but it became a sort of habit. During the day he was always in motion - mining and farming and hunting and cooking - and Wilson took solace in the familiarity of these tasks. Sometimes during the night Wilson sat, just outside the circle of light cast from the campfire (which was as jaring as it was exhilerating), watching Maxwell fall in and out of hazy sleep, and tried to ignore the butterflies in his chest.

It seemed like such a short time had passed, but the camp had grown almost homely, a comforting patchwork that spred as the need arose. And the more time he spent on the Throne, the easier it was for Wilson to seperate himself from his body, the easier it was to watch. And he did. Inching a little closer to the warmth and light every time dark and quiet fell over the camp.

Only because there was very little else to do, though. The way Maxwell hummed some half-forgotten tune to himself as he walked back to the makeshift camp had nothing to do with it. Neither did the way the orange firelight caught on the sharp angles of that familiar face and reflected off half-closed eyes. And it definately wasn't because of the urge to see what those soft lips would feel like against his. Not even a little.

Okay, maybe it had a little to do with it, but the way someone looked, the way they acted were hard not to notice when you were around someone so often, especially when they thought they were alone. Wilson almost wondered if Maxwell had watched _him_  like this, and it sent a strange shiver through him - the half-guilt that he was _kinda_ spying on someone had passed a while ago.

And maybe it wasn't even just watching anymore; he had grown bolder. If Maxwell happened to hear the snap of a twig underfoot or catch a glance of black between the trees, then that was a total accident. Even if maybe Wilson kinda wanted to be seen; wanted Maxwell's eyes to meet his. Wilson thought about talking to him. Wilson though about doing... other things with him.

He- he might have a slight problem.

 

 


End file.
